Pouring my heart out: What's on my mind

I spent several hours last night awake as my daughter slept soundly in my spot in bed. Her fever spiked again and she was out of it. Dead weight I could not move. (I hate that term, by the way.)

So there I was, trying to find a spot for myself next to a feverish child. A soundly sleeping feverish child - which - yes - is better than the alternative. A snoring husband and a snoring dog. Do you think I fell asleep during all of that? On top of it all I needed to watch my daughter. You parents know how that is. And if you're not a parent yet, but plan to be, you will know. You will see those moments when your child is ill and you are wide awake, simply listening to the sound of her breath.

It flashed me back to the moments of her early days. Whether it was in the pack-n-play in our room, or in her crib once she was a little bit older. I'd check on her often. Constantly? No. But often enough. Was it my postpartum anxiety? I don't know. I just did it. I needed to feel her breath. I needed to hear it, touch her body and feel her warmth. 

This changed last night, and many a night before. When your child has a fever you want to take it from them. You touch their body, small, fragile, despite how strong and intense it may seem in those moments when they're playing soccer, running through the playground or jumping into the pool. Those moments of constant motion when you just want them to GO TO BED!

You feel the warmth of their untouched skin and want to absorb it into your own. Take the fever away so they can sleep soundly. Without restless tossing and turning. Without waking up to say, 'I'm cold, Mommy,' because you know it would be so helpful for them. You know it'd be just something small you could do to make it all better. 

So in the not-so-still of the night last night, I created many a blog post in my head. And yet, here I sit - my child sitting underneath the desk I am at (get up, get UP! She's obviously feeling better, wouldn't you agree?) two dogs laying on the floor behind me, writing about motherhood. What is it that turns my words into that of a mom? Or am I just being a mom? Talking about what means the most after a long night of tossing and turning? Perhaps. 

Is it ever appropriate to say "Just a mom"? Because I think not. Anymore than it would be to say someone is "Just a dad," right? So why do people get so caught up in labels, anyway? Mommy bloggers, or a mom who happens to blog? (I call myself the latter, as I believe I write about non-mommy things, as well. Am I wrong? What say you?) 

Sometimes I weigh more heavily in one direction or another. Sometimes I just write to write. I don't know. And I certainly didn't mean to turn this into any sort of debate. I suppose it turned into a steam of consciousness of sorts, while watching my child sleep last night I thought of so many things to write about. How she hogged the bed (have any of you seen that co-sleeping image of hilarity on Pinterest or FB? That's what I was thinking of at four AM) and I cradled my body around hers. Bumping into the nightstand. Tugging on my own pajamas. Hurting my arm a little bit after my own doctor's appointment yesterday. But there I was. A mom. Trying to sleep. Before I lost my ... well ... mind is a more polite way of finishing that sentence.

Thanks for reading, peeps. Peace out. 

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